Lord Ravensden's Marriage. Anne HerriesЧитать онлайн книгу.
she likes living in obscurity.”
“Northamptonshire of all places! Good grief, man, it is the back of beyond, and must be purgatory for a young lady of fashion, who has been used to mixing in the best circles. Olivia will be bored out of her mind within a week!”
“I shall not reconsider until she remembers her duty to me,” Lord Burton had declared. “I have cut off her allowance and shall disinherit her altogether if she does not admit her fault and apologise to us both.”
“I think that it is rather we who should apologise to her.”
After that, their conversation had regrettably gone downhill.
Harry was furious. Burton’s conduct was despicable—and he, Harry Ravensden, had played a major part in the downfall of a very lovely young woman!
A careless remark in a gentleman’s club, overheard by some malicious tongue—and he imagined he could guess the owner of that tongue! If he were not much mistaken, it was his cousin Peregrine Quindon who had started the vicious tale circulating. It was a wicked piece of mischief, and Peregrine would hear from him at some point in the future!
Olivia had clearly been hurt by some other young lady’s glee in the fact that her marriage was, after all, merely one of convenience, that despite her glittering Season, and being the toast of London society, her bridegroom was marrying her only to oblige her adopted father. She had reacted in a very natural way, and had written him a stilted letter, telling him that she had decided she could not marry him, which he had received only on his return to town—by which time the scandal had broken and was being whispered of all over London.
Harry cursed the misfortune that had taken him from town. He had been summoned urgently to his estates in the north, a journey there and back of several days. Had he been in London, he might have seen Olivia, explained that he did indeed have a very high regard for her, and was honoured that she had accepted him—as he truly was.
Perhaps he had not fallen in love in the true romantic sense—but Harry did not really believe in that kind of love. He had experienced passion often enough, and also a deep affection for his friends, but never total, heart-stopping love.
He enjoyed the company of intelligent women. His best friend’s wife was an exceptional woman, and he was very fond of Lady Dawlish. He had often envied Percy his happy home life, but had so far failed to find a lady he could admire as much as Merry Dawlish, who laughed a lot and seemed to enjoy life hugely in her own inimitable way. Even so, he had felt something for Olivia, and he had certainly not intended the tragedy that his carelessness had caused. Indeed, it grieved him that she had been put in such a position, for without fortune and friends to stand by her, she was ruined.
So what was he going to do about it? Having just returned from the country, he had little inclination to return there—and to Northamptonshire! Nothing interesting ever happened in such places.
Harry’s besetting sin was that he was easily bored. Indeed, he was often plagued by a soul-destroying tedium, which had come upon him when his father’s death forced him to give up the army life he had enjoyed for a brief period, and return to care for his estates. He was a good master and did not neglect his land or his people, but he was aware of something missing in his life.
He preferred living in town, where he was more likely to find stimulating company, and would not have minded so much if Olivia had gone to Bath or Brighton, but this village…what was it called? Ah yes, Abbot Giles. It was bound to be full of dull-witted gentry and lusty country wenches.
Harry’s eye did not brighten at the thought of buxom wenches. He was famed for his taste in cyprians, and the mistresses he had kept whenever it suited him had always possessed their full measure of both beauty and wit. He believed the one thing that had prevented him from giving his whole heart to Olivia was that she did not seem to share his love of the ridiculous. She had found some of his remarks either hurtful or bewildering. Harry thought wistfully that it would be pleasant to have a woman by one’s side who could give as good as she got, who wasn’t afraid to stand up to him.
“What an odd character you are to be sure,” Harry told his reflection. It was a severe fault in him that he could not long be pleased by beautiful young women, unless they were also amusing.
Harry frowned at his own thoughts. It was not as if he were hiding some secret tragedy. His mother was still living, and the sweetest creature alive—but she had not been in love with his father, nor his father with her. Both had carried on separate lives, taking and discarding lovers without hurting the other. Indeed, they had been the best of friends. Harry believed he must be like his mother, who seemed not to treat anything seriously, and was besides being the sweetest, the most provoking of females.
No matter! He was a man of his word. He had given his word to Olivia, and the fact that she had jilted him made no difference. He must go after her, try to persuade her that he was not so very terrible. As his wife, she would be readmitted to the society that had cast her off—and that surely must be better than the fate which awaited her now.
“Beckett…” he called, making up his mind suddenly. “Put up a change of clothing for me. I am going out of town for a few days.”
“Yes, milord,” said his valet, coming in. “May one inquire where we are going?”
“You are going nowhere,” Harry replied with an odd little smile. “And if anyone asks, you have no idea where I am…”
“Come in, dearest,” Beatrice said, meeting her sister at the door. It was some six days since she had received Olivia’s letter, and her heart was pained by the look of tiredness and near despair in Olivia’s face. Oh, that rogue, Ravensden! He should be hung, drawn and quartered for what he had done. “You look cold, my love. Was the journey very tiresome?”
The road from London to Northampton was good, and could be covered easily enough in a day, but the country roads which led to Abbot Giles were far from ideal. Olivia had travelled down by one of the public coaching routes the previous day, and had been forced to find another conveyance in Northampton to bring her on. All she had been able to hire was an obliging carter, who had offered to take both her and her baggage for the sum of three shillings. A journey which must have shaken her almost rigid! And must also have been terrifying to a girl who had previously travelled in a well-sprung carriage with servants to care for her every whim.
How could the Burtons have sent her all this way alone? Anything might have happened to Olivia. It was as if her adoptive parents had abandoned all care for her along with their responsibility. The very least they might have done was to send her home in a carriage! Their heartlessness made Beatrice boil with anger, but she forced herself to be calm. It did not matter now! Her sister was here and safe, though desperately weary.
“Beatrice…” Olivia’s voice almost broke. Clearly she had been wondering what her reception would be, and Beatrice’s concerned greeting had almost overset her. “I am so very sorry to bring this trouble on you.”
“Trouble? What trouble?” Beatrice asked. “It is with the greatest pleasure that I welcome my sister to this house. We love you, Olivia. You could never be a trouble to me or your family…” She smiled and kissed Olivia’s cheek. “Come and meet Aunt Nan, dearest. Our father is busy at the moment. We try not to disturb him when he is working, but you will meet him later. He has asked me to tell you how pleased he is to have you home again.”
At this the sweet, innocent face of Miss Olivia crumpled, the tears spilling out of her bright blue eyes.
“Oh, how kind you are,” she said, fumbling for her kerchief in the reticule she carried on her wrist. She was fashionably dressed, though her pelisse was sadly splashed with mud, and the three trunks of personal belongings she had brought with her on the carter’s wagon would seem to indicate that the Burtons had not cast her out without a rag to her back. “I know you must think me wicked…or at the very least foolish.”
“I think nothing of the kind,” Beatrice said, leading her into the tiny back parlour, in which a welcoming fire was burning. It was usually not lit until the evening, neither